


Needles

by Clara_Parlato



Series: Stitched Smile [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Body Horror, Horror, Langst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-01
Updated: 2018-11-01
Packaged: 2019-08-13 23:58:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16482212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Clara_Parlato/pseuds/Clara_Parlato
Summary: Silent as a doll.





	Needles

**Author's Note:**

> I’m trying to get better at writing horror, but it seems I transform everything I touch in angst. ¬w¬’ I guess you could say this is a Halloween special?

Lance never had a problem with needles. In fact, he liked needles. The things one could do with a sewing needle always amazed him. He used to sit near abuelita for hours, watching her make, remake or mend things with a needle and some thread. He proudly and lovingly showed off the dolls she made him, even when other boys made fun of him for playing with dolls. It was alright, the girls could see the mastery that the dolls were made of. Lance loved showing off his dolls, just as much as he loved showing off his clothes. Abuelita could make the most girlish dress there was and he would wear it for an entire day with a beaming smile and a skip on his steps.

He actually did so, the girls were impressed, the boys not so much. Although, Arthur made sure to tell Lance how pretty he was as soon as the group wasn’t looking, giving Lance a small white flower and sheepish smile and receiving a kiss on cheek and a brilliant smile in return. Abuelita had many requests for dresses from Lance’s friends that month, and she fulfilled them happily with the help of her favorite grandkid.

Needless—no pun intended—to say, Lance learned everything there was to learn about sewing from his grandmother. Abuelita sometimes even cursed him out—with that fond voice and amused gaze—, saying he would take her job. Lance always told her she was the best there ever was at her job and she always agreed with him because damn right, she was. He also couldn’t resist and asked her to teach him how to do other things like knitting. Abuelita taught him after making him promise he would make socks and scarves for her.

Sadly, that skill was not needed at the Garrison, so Lance had to conform himself with sewing only when he was sure he had free time, focusing solely on his dream of flying beyond the stars. Hunk was forever grateful for the patchwork on his clothes; the apron that was his birthday gift was cherished like a relic.

Ironically, that skill was needed in space. Keith was the master of small tears, Lance lost count of how many times he had to sew that red jacket back to normal. Pidge had cold feet, so Lance made a personal mission of making her socks. Shiro liked scarves. Allura’s dresses were beautiful, but time hadn’t been very nice to some of them. Hunk loved the feeling of soft gloves and the idea of another apron. Coran just appreciated a good outfit.

Overall, Lance was happy he could help his team in any way he could. He wasn’t the smartest or the strongest, so being useful in ways they weren’t able to was a mission he took with pride.

They didn’t seem to appreciate it very much after a while. Or rather, they didn’t seem to appreciate Lance very much. Moreover, Lance could understand, of course he could, they were in the middle of a war, everyone would be stressed. They needed an outlet and if Lance could be it for them, then he would, even if the mistreatment was hurtful. However, a few weeks in that new role made him notice something. They were stressed, yes, but, somehow, they only treated him badly. They would smile at each other and share encouraging looks, kind words easily following after. Even Keith was able to show them his softer side.

But the moment they noticed Lance’s presence, they changed. A scowl on each face and a disapproving look followed by harsh words. The only two that didn’t do so were Hunk, who could not be mean, only neglectful, and Coran, who regarded the paladin with a fatherly aura.

Lance would happily be an outlet for his team’s stress, he would, but that was not the case. They weren’t being that way because they were stressed, they were singling him out. It wasn’t fair, Lance knew. Therefore, he tried to solve things the way Mama taught him: Talking.

Note for the future: A conversation only works when the two parties are listening.

Each try ended up with him either being ignored or shushed, the conversation not even starting sometimes.

Not being listened by the people he was supposed to see as a family, Lance then went with abuelita’s way of dealing with pain: Sewing. Soon he had dolls of every paladin, of the princess, of Coran, even the mice. A plushy of every lion. Dolls of the Galra, good or bad, from the Empire or the Blade. A plushy of Slav. Dolls of every alien they have met.

And, yes, he could make some clothes too, but clothes would not cure his loneliness. Not that the dolls did, but it was easier to pretend.

It was right after finishing a doll of himself when the idea came to him. It was gruesome, yes. It would be painful, yes. It would probably look horrible.

He did it anyways.

The first puncture was the most painful. He was full on crying while the needle pierced his skin. Warm blood running down his fingers while he tried to make the needle go through. The shiny tip finally made it through the dark skin, having triumphantly opened the way for the thread. The feeling of the dark blue thread running inside his skin was peculiar, sent jolts of some uncomfortable and unknown feeling down his spine, making the part of his mind that had been screaming and begging him to stop make itself even more present by making his ears ring. His resolve wavered a bit, ready to faint at any moment. Closing his eyes, Lance took a few deep breaths.

When he opened them, his reflection showed a determined fool.

The second was not any easier. The stich was a bit crooked and Lance cursed at the prospect of having to do it again. But, then again, it was his first time doing that and he would get batter as time ran around, so he cut himself some slack.

The third was still bad. The fourth was also bad.

They all were bad.

Tears and blood mixing on his bathroom floor, making a new shade of red, a new shade of pain. After cleaning up, both himself and the bathroom, Lance observed his work. He wouldn’t win any beauty contest, but he had to admit that the almost black thread contrasted rather nicely with his skin.

Running his fingers over them, minding the biting pain and the devouring dread, the paladin wondered if he should hide it from them. They probably would notice, and probably would censor him for doing such a thing, probably blaming him of wanting attention.

And it would certainly hurt.

He needed to hide it. At least until they labeled him unimportant enough to be forgotten, then he could go and do whatever he felt like going and doing. Then he would be free from them.

The moment he left the bathroom was the moment Coran—bless that mustached gentleman—let himself him. The man clearly had to hold back a horrified scream, the Coran-doll Lance had left in the Infirmary falling from his hands. Lance rushed to get it from the floor, not liking to see one of his best works being mistreated.

“Lance, my boy… What have you done?” Coran questioned, hands holding firmly the boy’s shoulders, eyes overflowing with worry, “We need to take this off right now!”

Lance stopped him with a vigorous head gesture.

_No._

“What do you mean ‘no’?!”

Lance did his best to send a reassuring look to the man he considered a father. Getting himself out of Coran’s grip and leaving Coran-doll on his bed, he grabbed his cellphone—that he had miraculously brought with him to space—and typed an answer.

_“It is okay, Coran. They don’t listen, so I won’t talk. Silent as a doll. Besides, now I and Lance Jr. match!”_

Lance then grabbed one of the dolls on his bed. His doll. Lance-doll.

The doll that shared his sewed smile.


End file.
